


The Bidding

by tsar_saltans_swan



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Prison, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fictional Slurs, Gen, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Insecurity about Appearance, Kinda Songfic, Kylo's Nose, M/M, Prison, Public Humiliation, Situational Humiliation, Song: The Bidding (Tally Hall), Verbal Humiliation, auctioning people off like cattle, handmaid's tale but reverse, insinuated gay, prison movie tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsar_saltans_swan/pseuds/tsar_saltans_swan
Summary: "Going once, going twice, won't these gentlemen suffice?"Armitage, a young lawyer, is suddenly thrown into an auction house to atone for the crime of not finding a wife by 25. It's a living hell... until he meets Ben.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	The Bidding

When his consciousness returned to him, the first thing Armitage noticed was the floor. His hands slid over the cold, hard surface and struggled to maintain their grip as he lifted his chest and head off of the ground. His eyelids fluttered open as far as the crud in his tear ducts would let him to see the warm grey of the surface below him, dappled ever so lightly with darker, cooler greys. The light above him reflected off it with a matted shine emblematic of varnish.

Poured concrete. That’s what it was.

He lifted his head up, the rest of him straining to keep from collapsing back onto the floor. The walls were covered in a shade of burgundy, evocative of the expensive red wines and elegant fainting couches of his teens. In one corner of the room, there was a small toilet and a sink, decent, but with no privacy to be found. In the opposite corner was a small bunk with a worn-out mattress and ruddy purple sheets. Their grape color brought back vague memories of the roman purple robes that the Vasant priests often wore as they rung their bells, yelling at passersby to repent or perish. What was more concerning about this place was the solid iron bars on the entrance to the room. 

A silent curse escaped his lips. This certainly wasn’t the room he fell asleep in the previous night. He fell asleep in his own bed, warm and cozy in his fine silk pajamas, and now, he woke up here, behind bars and in nothing but skimpy black underwear.

Suddenly, he remembered something.

He had just turned 25 and didn’t have a wife.

Before he could add two and two together, a pulsating pain started to throb in his left calf. His eyes shut tight and his brow furrowed as he sucked in air through his teeth. A swivel of his head revealed a large, ruddy bruise spreading across the muscle, branching out like an ink spill. Another silent curse escaped his lips, this time in a slightly more audible whisper. The force of the swear dwelled the pain enough so that he could think about his situation. Again, he went over the what he knew; he had just turned 25, he was unmarried, and now, without warning, he was thrown into a cell in a place that looked less like a prison and more like the homebrew dungeon-basement combination of a house of ill repute.

Now, the math was simple. This was an auction house, and he wouldn’t be leaving until he was sold to the highest bidder.

Damnit.

All of a sudden, the clang of a nightstick against the bars of his cell chased away the last of his stupor. 

A guard. Armitage had heard stories about the guards in auction houses; some said that they were clones of the Praesidens Imperialis’s best bodyguard. Others said they were people stolen from their parents at birth and brainwashed into being unfeeling drones, perpetually focused on their duties, never questioning their orders. Still others said that they  _ were _ drones; how can a computer have independent thought if the capacity is never programmed into them? No matter their origins, they all shared the same characteristics in the stories: faceless masks, vocoded voices, and a complete and utter disregard for human emotion, either from them or from the prisoners they watched over. Now, Armitage was in the tough position of being face to face with one.

“Get up, colt,” the guard barked, his voice distorted yet commandeering. Contempt crackled in his order like carbon candy in soda water.

Colt. What? He had never been called that in his life, not even by the playground tormentors of his youth, who seemed to know every insult in existence and used each to great effect. However, the way the guard hissed the word, it almost sounded like a slur. Perhaps it was. Barely a second after it was uttered, Armitage picked himself off the concrete floor. “Excuse me?” he asked with all the venom he could muster at the moment (which, in all honesty, wasn’t much).

“Don’t talk back to your superiors, colt.” His voice modulator cracked and rasped as he spoke.

“I’ve snapped skinny little runts like you in half like twigs. Don’t think you won’t be next.”

Armitage shuddered. Runt, as in runt of the litter. At least he knew that one.

“Besides, we’ve got a few more things for you to… help you settle in.” He could feel him sneer sadistically through his faceless mask. “If you don’t get in line, you won’t get any of them.”

He gulped.  _ Good behavior from now on _ , he thought to himself. It might get him out of here faster.

“First up,” said the guard, his barking now little more than an unceremonious crackling yap. He slid a plate of moist, flesh colored gruel into the meal delivery slot of his cell. “Eat up, runt. It’s protein. Maybe getting some muscles on you will make you more attractive to the ladies.”

He picked the plate up from the slot. No silverware came in the slot with it. He stared at the sarcous mass sitting idle upon his plate, then looked up at the guard, who, through his faceless visage, was patiently waiting for him to eat it.

“Well? Aren’t you going to eat? There are people in Skeva Stana who’d kill to have your meal.”

Armitage swallowed his pride, held the plate up to his face, and began to eat the now noticeably foul smelling protein slop as if he were an animal being fed from a trough. Slowly but surely, he cleaned his plate.

“That’s a good, well behaved little runt,” the guard cooed. “Perhaps it's time to introduce your second aid. Wait here.” The guard turned away, then opened the door. “Go. Out to the commons with you.” He absentmindedly threw a loose t-shirt and sweatpants at him. “And put these on before you go out. No one wants to see all that skin… just yet.”

Quickly and wordlessly, Armitage slipped them on and ran out to the commons.

* * *

The next thing he noticed about the place was how labyrinthine it was. The guard had told him nothing about where the common rooms were, and every request for directions he had made was met with either a “You’ll find it,” or a red herring direction. He was barefoot, so every step he took on the cold, hard concrete below him was marked with a cold, stinging pain and a slap that echoed through the burgundy corridors. No more than 30 minutes had passed when he sprinted down a hall which ended in a pair of heavy double doors with the word “Commons” written above it. If this wasn’t it, he’d never find it at this point; the only way to tell if this was his destination was to try and enter. Without thought, he pushed against the doors and exploded through them. 

Once he entered, he wanted to yell something along the lines of “I made it! I’m here!”, but before he could even begin to form the words of his cry of triumph, his foot caught on the doorframe. He fell forward and his face and chest hit the ground with a mighty thud. The large, crowded chamber fell silent with his entrance as they all turned their heads and stared at the skinny, beat up, copper headed man who had just flown in and crumpled onto the ground in front of them. A few giggled, a few shook their heads, but most stayed silent, either out of pity or bemusement. Armitage lifted his head off the ground, heaving and panting.

A guard’s voice echoed through the hall. “This weakling on the floor before you is Armitage, one of the new colts. Upper’s telling me to go easy on him; a porcelain doll like him needs to be handled with care. Hopefully the rest of you do the same.” Most of the men guffawed in reply as the guard left. The forced laughter was quickly replaced by whispers and murmurs, which filled the common area with a sound like the incoherent chatter of leaves in the wind.

“Attention, everyone!” a disembodied tenor shouted from the back of the room. “Out of the way! The inspection’s about to begin!”

The crowd parted to reveal a tall, imposing man with a stocky build. He had large, broad shoulders and wavy, black hair that just barely draped down onto them. He began to walk towards Armitage, each step slow and methodical. When he came within two feet of him, he stopped directly in front of him and glared at him with dark, hooded eyes. He then began to circle around him like a lion circling its prey as he looked up and down his body. After a few tense times around, he went directly behind him, putting his massive, paw like hands on his shoulders.

The crowd circling them fell silent. It seemed as if the entire world was watching them with baited breath.

Suddenly, his booming, bassoon reed voice began to echo through the silent hall. “Everyone! I have determined my course of action! The inspection will be done in private!” 

The crowd let loose a disappointed “aww” and went back to its murmur.

Armitage looked up to see the man’s strange, vaguely cubist face, with dark, hooded eyes, a prominent nose, and pink, plush lips, looking down at him. “Hey,” the stranger mumbled as he offered his paw to him. “Come with me.”

Without thinking, Armitage took his hand; its massive warmth engulfed his tiny, cold fingers. His heart began to flutter with the strange sensation; whether it was out of fear or something else, Armitage didn’t exactly know.

* * *

The private room they stepped into was plain and undecorated except for a few wooden chairs, one in the corner of the room and another in the center. An old light swung from the ceiling, its lightbulb faint and flickering.

“Have a seat,” said the man, his husky voice barely coming above a suave murmur. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Armitage did as he was told, as much as he could with the chair being so tiny and uncomfortable.

“Let’s start with some questions. What’s your name?”

“Armitage, sir.”

“Please, you don’t have to call me sir. Maybe it would have been better to introduce myself first; I’m Ben.”

Ah, Ben. Now he had a name to go with his strange yet handsome face.

“And what did you do for a living before you got thrown in here?”

“I was a lawyer, sir… I mean, Ben.” Armitage looked down and scowled in embarrassment.

Ben gave a small chuckle. “You’re cute, did you know that?”

Oh god. Did he just call him cute? He felt the heat rising to his face and wanted to either disappear or vomit. 

“What’s going to happen to me here?”

“Not much. In fact, the inspection is mostly over.”

“You’re serious?”

Ben gave a deep “mm-hm” as he nodded his head.

Armitage breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank goodness. I thought you were going to molest me.”

“Molest you?” Ben said the words through a barely held chuckle. “Hah, not in a million years. You’ve been through enough.”

“But how did you know? I’ve barely even talked to you!”

Ben paused for a moment, closed his eyes and huffed through his nose. “Well… when I touched your shoulder, I saw.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. When I touch people, I can see their memories and thoughts. I don’t know what it is or how it works, but… I saw everything from the time you woke up to now.”

Armitage gulped. “Are you going to see more? For the inspection.”

“Not really. I usually ask people to tell me about their lives, and if they don’t comply, I have to touch their foreheads. That’s how I see the most memories. Hell, I’ve even seen memories that most people didn’t even know they had. So, in that vein… what was life like before you got thrown in here?”

Armitage knitted his brow and held his chin with his hand. “Where to start… oh, yes. I guess I had a normal childhood. My father was an active member of the Vasant faith, as was my mother. Of course, they took me to the temple every week, and I participated like a good child of the Celestial Father. They expected me to have a wife by the time I was eighteen, but as I grew up, I found that I wasn’t, you know, ‘girl crazy’, like the other boys were. However, I do remember a few times when I felt my heart flutter with the thought of some of my classmates. Male classmates. I didn’t think anything of it, I thought I was a late bloomer and just needed some time. I also wasn’t quite aware that… you know, that… was something people could do. The Vasant faith teaches that the Sacred Nuptiation is only for men and women, and to be fruitful and multiply, but…” Armitage gave a half hearted shrug as his hands fell into his lap, almost as if in confusion and defeat.

“Ah, I see. I was in a similar position when I first got thrown in.”

“How so?”

“Well, at 25, I had a wife, but… I also had a lover.”

“Who?”

“A man. They threw me in here for ‘violation of the Sacred Nuptiation’. I’m not even in the Vasant church.”

“Well… how old are you now?”

“I’m 30.”

“30? If everybody here was interred at 25, you must have spent 5 years here! How could a nice, good looking guy like you spend five years in this godforsaken place? Surely one of the High Ladies likes their men broad shouldered and refrigerator shaped.”

Ben cast his eyes down and sighed through his nose. “I’m afraid not. The High Ladies aren’t exactly fans of a few specific features of mine.” Ben turned his head to the side and gently laid a finger on the tip of his long, romanesque nose. “This, for example.”

“What do they know? I think your nose is just fine. It makes you look very regal, gives you a commanding presence. In fact, I like it.”

Ben’s back arched like that of a frightened cat. “You’re only saying that–”

Armitage’s eyes softened as he gently touched the upper parts of Ben’s muscular arms, as if to reassure him. “Oh no, not at all! I swear on my heart and the Celestial Father I’m telling the truth. I like it. I do.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

Ben looked down as his lips curled into a flustered smile, then looked back up with his usual grim expression. He quickly took Armitage into his arms and held him tightly to his chest.

“You. I’m keeping you.”

“What?”

Ben loosened his grip and looked down at him. “You’re my aide now. You tag along behind me and help me out, and in return, I’ll protect you.”

Armitage froze. He couldn’t be serious, could he? After a few minutes conversation and a half baked compliment, he had a bodyguard? Was he really that charming? Or did Ben just not have any sense on who to trust and when? He wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly; somehow, he, usually the type to ask questions with bitter venom palpable in each syllable, couldn’t bear to form the words. A slight, sheepish “oh… okay” was the only thing that slipped through his lips.

Suddenly, three identical chimes rang through the air, piercing the calm and privacy that wrapped around the two men like a swaddling cloth wraps around a baby.

“What’s that?” Armitage asked, his voice still meek from the shock of the past two minutes.

“The bidding chimes,” Ben answered plainly, his voice a wistful sigh.

* * *

The first thing Armitage noticed about the bidding hall was his pen. Despite the small space, his pen was rather cushy; burgundy velvet covered the walls, perhaps to make its inhabitant seem more appealing. On the other side of the acrylic glass which partly caged him in, a crowd of High Ladies had taken their seats, each in an outfit more vibrant and decadent than the last; it seemed the dress code called for hats with brims wider than two ladies standing shoulder to shoulder and dresses with long bustles that trailed behind them like the trains of peacocks. The one similarity among these outrageous getups were their colorful bidding fans, with their assigned numbers embroidered onto them with the purest gold leaf thread. Every so often a lady passed by, took off her enormous hat, tapped on the glass as she inspected his body, then walked away with her nose in the air. Though the glass was thick, he could faintly hear their comments. 

“Oh, he’s much too skinny,” one said as she walked past. “Men simply must have muscles. This is no man, he’s a runtish boy!” The comment made the backs of his eyes heat and his throat tighten.

“Look at his hair! His bones! He’s one of the fair folk; buy him and he’ll set a plague upon your cattle,” said another to her friend walking beside her. Armitage bit his tongue and clenched his fists.

“Fair folk?” the friend replied. “There’s no such thing, he’s just a redhead. The only thing worse than a plague upon your cattle is… well… as above, so below.” His eyes began to water and his tears began to leak out of his nose.

Suddenly, the acrylic panel lifted up. “Number 356, please step up to the podium. Your bidding is about to begin,” said a shrewd, disembodied voice.

Through teary eyes, Armitage saw the ramp that led to the podium. If he was going to make a fool of himself, now was not the time to do it.

The shrewd, disembodied voice belonged to the auctioneer droid on the front-left corner of the podium. “Number 356 is one of our newest colts!” it shouted, its voice silvery and cheerful for a droid. “If you’re into skinny redheads with not much to offer, go ahead and buy him!”

The last comment was like a dagger to the heart. A few tears rolled down his cheek. Now, he was almost one hundred percent sure that his eyes were red and inflamed and his nose was leaking onto his upper lip.

Silence. For the next five minutes, not a single lady raised a fan.

“All right, 356! That’s all the time you get! Up next, number 357!”

Well, he had made a fool of himself. At least his time in the spotlight was done. But what about Ben?

By some miraculous stroke of fate, Ben, of all people, came walking up the ramp. His eyes locked with Armitage’s, and he gave a small nod to him as he went up to the podium.

From the bottom of the ramp, Armitage listened as Ben got the same treatment; the droid’s snide comments, the silence, the disappointment; Ben, though, didn’t seem to react. He had been here for 5 years; perhaps he was used to it. Maybe he’d have some sage advice.

* * *

One of the last things Armitage noticed about Ben was how strong and gentle his arms were. Though Armitage was quietly sobbing into the man’s plush chest, soaking his shirt with tears and snot, his arms still wrapped around him, the muscles tensing to caress his skin.

“There, there,” Ben cooed as he patted him on the back reassuringly. “The first go-around is tough for everyone. The droid doesn’t help either.”

Armitage began to sob a little harder, burying his face deeper into his chest to muffle the sound. As his forehead touched the bit of skin over his sternum, Ben sensed that there was something more than first day jitters going on. 

“Can I… feel your forehead real quick?”

Armitage lifted his tear stained face off of Ben’s chest and offered his forehead. Ben gingerly placed a single fingertip on his freckled forehead and saw the events of the last hour. It was much worse than his first go-around, much, much worse.

“Oh, baby,” Ben sighed with a warble indicative of tears as he held Armitage to his chest. “I’m gonna get you out of here. We’ll get out of here, together. I promise.”

  
  



End file.
